


Pornography

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: Interpol
Genre: Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-15
Updated: 2006-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are no drivers at the wheel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pornography

_This isn't about the war._

Paul doesn't trust the news anymore. He watches it, everyday. At first he only had the one television, and then he realized he could be missing out on something on another channel. So he bought another set. And then another. And then another. Maxed out his credit card but now he has all the remotes and all the channels. Everything cancels each other out. He buys newspapers that he reads from front to back, even the small print where they apologize for errors and pretend they care. Especially the small print where they apologize for errors and pretend they care.

_This is maybe about the end of the world._

Carlos comes over to his apartment, and this is strange because Carlos rarely comes over. He's not even entirely sure they're friends, Carlos and him. Sometimes Paul's entirely too fond of the man, and sometimes there's nothing even remotely likable about him, and Paul feels like if steps any closer, speaks one more word, they'll make the news at night. But here he is, larger than life and yet somehow insignificant to it, uncomfortable and ill-fitting amongst Paul's soft beige cream furnishings. The apartment had come like this, and he'd never seen fit to change it. There never seemed to be a point.

_Maybe the war didn't happen._

They're having sex now. When did that - Paul isn't sure. One minute he's writing down poems and lyrics and bleeding all over his pretty shag carpeting, the next Carlos is bearing down on him, all dark heat and intense looks. But this is Carlos, and soon enough Paul's got him on his back, and he's gasping and choking and probably trying to get free, but Paul's not letting go. He refuses to turn the televisions off, and in the background he can hear everyone's voices overlapping one another, creating a cacophony of noise that's as black as Carlos's hair, as white as his skin. don't, Carlos says, and Paul shushes him. Don't speak. I'm listening.

_Maybe the world did instead._

Six months to the day, it all stops. He switches off the television sets, unplugs the radios, throws away the stacks upon stacks of newspapers that have cluttered up his home. Carlos helps him, chattering away as usual. Offering anecdotes and explanations and quite possibly trying to sell him a television set, all unwarranted and unasked for. Paul says, I like you better when your mouth is otherwise occupied, and Carlos stops helping him. Bye, Paul says, to the sound of the door slamming.

_Or maybe just mine._

But he'll come back. He always does. Meanwhile Paul writes, stains his fingers black and writes tales about love and romance and girls that he only imagines to be real. They lurk at the edge of his consciousness and pretend they're concerned that he's falling apart. He's not afraid, but maybe he's a little lonely. Maybe he's just waiting for the world to end.

_Clearly though. It's the world._

And then it does. And Carlos shows up, dressed all in white for a change, hair mussed and face stripped of make-up, so it must be true. The world's ended. Was it quick, he asks, and wonders why the apocalypse feels exactly like a Tuesday.

"Paul," Carlos says. "You can be, on occasion, such a melodramatic little shit."


End file.
